


Their Own Devices

by sabinelagrande



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dudebro Ghost Hunters, F/M, Genre Savvy Newton Pulsifer, Ghost Hunters, M/M, Married Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer, Post-Canon, Tarot, Temporary Amnesia, Witch Newton Pulsifer, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-18 22:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20320411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: Anathema and Newt, accidental ghost hunters, must help Aziraphale find Crowley, an accidental ghost. Actually, a discorporated demon. They really are so similar, after all.





	1. The Four of Pentacles, Reversed

Anathema and Newton Device did not start out as ghost hunters. Anathema is a freelance occultist, and when it became clear that they're both serious about each other, Newt became an assistant freelance occultist. They take on work of a spooky nature that pays the bills: cartomancy and other divination; the selling of charms; the blessing of houses and businesses; the cleansing of negative energies. It's interesting work that keeps them both on their toes, and for couple's activities, it really can't be beat. It certainly worked for the two of them, because a year and a day later, they were handfasted and wed, in that order.

The weird thing is that neither of them can remember what it was a year and a day after. Anathema remembers coming to Tadfield, and she remembers burning Agnes's manuscript; somewhere in between those events they got together, but when she tries to think about it, her mind slides right off of it, like water off a river stone.

But back to ghost hunting. It started with a cleansing. Cleansings are generally performed when a place has a bad air about it, perhaps after a poisonous relationship has ended, or after a business goes under. Some people like to do one directly before a blessing, just to make sure the general funk carried by an old owner is removed.

It was one of these situations in which Anathema and Newt found themselves. There wasn't a lot of movement in and out of Tadfield, perhaps not surprising given its overall situation as an ideal English town; Newt was one of the few people who saw how weird being ideal was, but people had been underestimating Newt since before he could talk. 

Anathema didn't underestimate Newt. She put a map of ley lines in his hands and told him to find the patterns.

The particular establishment that Newt and Anathema were called to was a house, then a hair salon, then a coffee shop, then a house again, all within recent memory. It was going to be taken over by an estate agent now, and her assistant took one step into the building and quit immediately.

"I can't be having with this," the estate agent told them, over a cup of mint tea that Anathema poured for her. "It's true that it feels strange in there, but I'm trying to run a business."

"We'll start with a standard cleansing, and go from there," Anathema said, nodding to Newt, who took notes on the issue; they mostly consisted of "rosemary - enough in cabinet??" and "pre-consecrate salt water y/n" and a little drawing of a besom, but it got the job done anyway.

So they went out to the house-salon-coffee shop-house, and Newt knew immediately what the problem was.

"Ah," he said to Anathema, out of the estate agent's hearing. "It's haunted."

"Do you even believe in ghosts?" she said, confused.

"This is the perfect village, right?" he said. "Every English village needs ghosts. Just look at it. It's alone at the end of a lane. Its architecture is older than the houses around it. Parts of it are in disrepair. It's a haunted house."

"Let's just do the cleansing and see what happens, okay?" she said, sounding a little annoyed, and she caught up with the estate agent, who was in the process of unlocking the doors.

Anathema took two steps into the house, double the amount of the estate agent's assistant, and knew something was wrong.

"We'll start in the kitchen," she said, trying not to sound as alarmed as she was. "Is everything still hooked up?"

"Oh, yes," the estate agent said, then proceeded to ramble about plans to have lunch for her staff every Friday, to which neither Newt nor Anathema listened.

Newt took the cauldron- which was actually a dutch oven but no one had ever called them on it- chopping up lemons and herbs and covering them with a healthy amount of water. He set it on to boil, throwing in some cinnamon mostly for the smell, and turned to Anathema, who looked deeply worried. It was a good thing they were both scared; it was nicer when they did things together.

"Why don't I stay here and watch the cauldron," the estate agent said, saving a bit of headache.

"Great idea," Anathema said. She put the censer in Newt's hands and picked up her tightly bound bundle of rosemary. "We'll sweep the rest of the house."

"This place is very haunted," Newt whispered, as soon as they were out of earshot. He held the censer in his off hand and his athame in the other, brandished in front of him like it was an actual dagger. Then again, if you were trying to stab a ghost, it wasn't the worst idea.

"I'm getting that," Anathema said. She lit the end of the rosemary and started edging her way around the room, her arm swinging as she drew as many banishment sigils as she could think of.

"What do we do when we find the ghost?" Newt hissed, as they left the living room and made their way into the hall.

"You're the exorcist!" she said.

"My whole training for exorcism consisted of a very odd man handing me a bell, a book, and a candle," he said. "I have literally no idea what to do with them."

"Let's just keep going," she said. "Maybe it won't manifest."

"And then what, we just leave this woman to her fate?" he asked. "Because that's fine with me."

They made it all the way to the back door unaccosted, and Newt let his shoulders slump, relieved. The space felt deeply wrong, though the ritual was definitely cutting a swath through it. Maybe he'd been wrong; maybe it was just unlucky because of the location and needed a good metaphysical airing out.

Then a dark figure drifted down from the ceiling, sending inky tendrils curling into the room.

Newt shrieked, and Anathema dove in front of him; her hand, still clutching the smouldering rosemary, described a banishing pentacle in the air in front of her. Newt took his athame and swung it over his head, the best he could do in regards to casting a circle, and drew an invoking pentacle above them.

There was perfect silence as the creature took shape, reaching all the way to the ceiling, its face resolving into that of a sorrowful, perhaps once beautiful woman.

"We are at an impasse," she said, in a voice that sounded like wind howling.

Anathema realized then that the combination of her and Newt's desperate efforts had left them in a bubble of sanctified space. If either of them moved, they were fucked, but if they stayed perfectly still for the rest of their lives, they'd be fine.

"Er, hello," Newt said. "Are you aware that this is an estate agent's?"

"This is the place of my torment, the abode of my soul," the figure said. "I am bound to this place, as you are bound to this earth."

"Have you tried not being bound to this place?" Newt asked politely, and Anathema questioned where she had chosen to place her loyalties.

"What binds you here, specter?" Anathema asked, ignoring him. "How can we help you progress to your reward?"

"My reward is lost to me," she said, in a voice so forlorn that Newt could feel it to the depth of his heart. "My daughter is lost to me."

"If we can bring you your child, or proof your child was happy, will you leave?" Newt asked.

"That is the only thing I have wanted for all these years," she said, sighing. "You have six days, witch and warlock. After that, I come for you."

All at once the figure disappeared, sucked into one black point that disappeared as well.

"That is _not_ what I meant," Newt said, dazed, and after a moment's hesitation, he cut the protective circle open; a cold chill struck the both of them, their breath visible.

"If you get us both haunted, I will never forgive you," Anathema said.

"That's an awkward grounds for divorce," Newt replied. It was only then that he realized the estate agent was standing in the doorway, having seen at least part of this go down.

"We're going to go do some research," Anathema said, in her most placating voice. "I suggest that for now you stay very, very far away. Have you considered that you might want to take a vacation?"

The estate agent said nothing, but proceeded to flee.

"We really need to know who owned this house," Anathema said. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"This is the ideal English village," Newt said. "We can stop anyone on the street and hear the last five generations recited verbatim."

Anathema didn't know what she thought about the whole ideal English village thing, but Newt hadn't exactly been wrong about it. "Then let's go stop anyone on the street."

This is not what actually happened. What actually happened was they went to check the town records, which led them to the vicar, which led them to a great grandson of a third cousin of the original owner, which led to them getting a rather unnecessary number of pictures of photos going back to daguerrotypes. 

Anathema was no help in any of this, but she'd married someone as English as possible. It had its benefits.

The house already had a new for-sale sign in the front yard, but they made their way in anyway. Anathema set them up with a circle of protection, much more secure this time, and the two of them sat on the floor, arranging what they'd need in front of them.

"Specter of this house," Anathema said, once she'd called the quarters. "You seem to need no invocation, but we are here as promised to put you to rest."

The figure appeared again, filling up more of the room with swirling black tentacles, ones that curled menacingly around the edges of their circle. "Speak, witch."

"I'm going to show you some of the inhabitants of this house you may have known," Anathema said, turning her stack of printed photographs towards the figure. "We don't have photos all the way back to the beginning, but here's where it starts." 

She held up a picture of a girl in frilly clothes, being held by a woman with a black cloth covering her. "Emily Fairhope." There was no reaction from the entity, so Anathema moved on. 

"Next generation on, Amelia Granville." No reaction. "No? Cecily and Clara Granville." There was still no reaction, so Anathema followed a hunch and skipped to another photo. "Anna Granville."

The figure let out a wail that shook the walls, and for a moment, Newt and Anathema both felt the walls of their circle shiver.

"I see you're interested in Anna," Newt said, because when he was terrified, he defaulted to pretending nothing was wrong. "She was born out of wedlock to a mother who died in childbirth. She was renamed Anna Moreland when a cousin adopted her. This cousin moved to America. Anna married and became Anna Thomas, and she and Mister Thomas had ten children and died in their eighties." He pulled out their ace in the hole, a photo of the whole Thomas clan that the original owner's relative had produced. "See? She had a rough start, but she made the most of her life."

There was a moan that seemed to come from everywhere, and Newt grabbed for Anathema's hand; she squeezed his tightly. The sound was indescribable, grief and loss mixed with something lighter, something like contentment. Light from no source filled the room, and the figure faded away, burned off like mist.

Both Newt and Anathema slumped forward. "I can't believe that worked," Anathema said.

"Same here," Newt said. He looked around. "But if we didn't tell anyone, we could get a pretty good deal on this place."

In the end, they did both buy the place and let the word spread concerning what had happened with Anna; a framed photo of her hangs in the front room, as a reminder and because creepy old houses inhabited by witches need old photographs. They've never actually put out their shingle as ghost hunters. It's just that Tadfield has ghosts, all the ghosts a young boy might dream up, and if you have an issue with them, it's just so convenient to have someone local who might be able to give you a hand.

"Local" is a key descriptor; it's not common for them to get people outside the Tadfield area coming to ask for their help. Ghost hunters are all over England and, indeed, the world. Anathema and Newt are more ghost problem solvers than ghost hunters, so there's even less impetus for people from elsewhere to seek them out.

This is why it's particularly confusing when an unfamiliar man turns up at their door. He's dressed in a style several decades out of fashion, and Anathema's head hurts when she looks at him, like something about him is familiar but not at all.

"Hello," he says. "My name is-" and he says something Anathema only halfway catches. "I wondered if I might inquire about your services."

"Of course," she says, showing him in and leading him to the consultation area. "Can I offer you anything?"

"That's quite alright," he says. Newt chooses this moment to enter, eating a sweet roll in sweat pants, as is the danger of working out of your home. "Ah, Newt. Lovely to see you." Newt frowns, and the man's eyes go wide. "Not that we've met. Just read the sign. Everyone knows about those clever Devices."

Anathema sits down across from him. "What brings you to us, Mister, ah, Fell?"

"Aziraphale, if you wouldn't mind," he says. "Just the one word."

"Aziraphale, then," she says, though something about it makes her twitch.

"I'm looking for a ghost," Aziraphale says. "Well, not precisely a ghost in the traditional sense. He's more of a disembodied spirit, though his properties are very ghostlike. It is vitally important that I find him."

"When we say 'ghost hunter,' we don't usually mean that we're trying to track a specific spirit," Anathema says. 

"If you knew what building he was haunting, then we might be able to," Newt offers.

"I don't," Aziraphale says. "He wouldn't have left England, I don't think. I've looked about in London, in the limited way I can, so Tadfield was my next guess. I thought perhaps the two of you could help."

"What makes you think any of this?" Anathema says. "Sorry, I'm just a little lost. I have this weird feeling like there's something you're not telling us."

"You should listen to her," Newt says supportively. "Best weird feelings in town."

Aziraphale sighs in annoyance. "Oh, this simply will not do," he says. "I don't know why we couldn't just trust you in the first place."

"I'm sorry?" Newt says.

Aziraphale cracks his knuckles. "I haven't given anyone a vision in a long time, so my apologies if it's a bit intense."

He laces his fingers together, almost looking prayerful, and the knowledge blooms outwards. Suddenly both Anathema and Newt remember everything, everything about Armageddon, everything about what did and didn't happen, including where their year and a day started. The knowledge is vertiginous, learned the way things are not meant to be learned, and Anathema clutches her head with both hands, like her head will fly apart if she doesn't.

"Pardon me for a moment," Newt says, and then he politely runs into the bathroom to be sick.

When Anathema and Newt get themselves back together, there's a steaming cup of tea in front of each of them, a delicate slice of lemon floating in it. "So Crowley is missing, the one with the sunglasses," Anathema says.

"We had a dreadful fight," Aziraphale says, looking distressed but also guilty, "and then something happened and he discorporated."

"Do you know what happened?" Newt asks.

"Ah," Aziraphale says.

_"Fine, angel," Crowley said, storming out of the shop. "Be that way if you want to be. If you don't care, then I don't care either."_

_"Crowley, you know very well that's not what I said," Aziraphale said. "If you're not going to be rational-"_

_"Me, not rational?" Crowley said in disbelief, backing away from Aziraphale and stepping off the curb. "I'm the only one who's thinking clearly in this whole-"_

_There was an explosion of what looked like black glitter as Crowley's corporeal form got hit by a bus._

"Yes, actually," Aziraphale says. "I know that when I discorporated, I was transported to Heaven, but I was discorporated as the result of transporting to Heaven. I don't _think_ it would have sent him back to Hell, but there's no way of knowing."

"And you're sure he hasn't been destroyed, if that's a thing," Newt says.

Aziraphale looks bashful. "We did a ritual, after Armageddon, just in case this sort of thing happened again," he says, in a voice that people would say things like 'we made love on the beach under the stars.' "It linked us together on a metaphysical level."

"Can we use that?" Anathema asks.

"I can't track him with it, unfortunately," Aziraphale says. "I only know he hasn't been annihilated." His hand tightens into a fist. "I refuse to bear the thought of him being gone. I know he's somewhere." He sighs. "Money is, of course, no object, and any favor you might need of me, I am more than willing to exchange. I don't care what it takes. I just want to find Crowley."

Newt looks to Anathema, and she nods.

"Then we might as well start hunting," Anathema says.


	2. The Lovers

"Cards first, I should think," Newt says to Anathema, after they've both recovered a little more from the sudden knowledge that they sort of saved the world; the tea helps.

"Yeah, definitely," Anathema says. "Grab them for me?"

"Are you going to attempt cartomancy?" Aziraphale asks.

"The rule is that you're not allowed to question anything magickal we do," she says firmly.

"Oh, I wasn't objecting," he says. "Any port in a storm."

Newt returns, handing Anathema a drawstring bag and a black cloth, and Aziraphale moves their cups of tea out of the way so she can lay the cloth out. The cards, when she pulls them out of the bag, are softened around the edges with age, the backs displaying a vividly pink rose. Anathema unties the ribbon around them and immediately begins shuffling.

"You said you looked on your own," Anathema says as she shuffles. "What have you done so far?"

"Um," Aziraphale says, looking caught out. "I, ah, I mostly walked around shouting things like 'Crowley, are you there?' and 'Come out this instant' and 'Please don't be cross with me.'"

"It's a start, at least," Anathema says. "Where did you try?"

"My bookshop, of course, since I saw him there last," Aziraphale says. "His flat, which seemed logical. Then some locations we liked to visit together, where I looked deeply foolish talking to what turned out to be no one."

"Why do you need to find him so badly?" Anathema asks, cutting the deck and reversing the cards before resuming her shuffling.

Aziraphale looks confused. "You may as well ask me why I need to continue to live. Perhaps it's just that he needs a break from me, and perhaps I might eventually accept that if he said so, but I am not inclined to be patient about the issue when he's using discorporation to run from his problems."

Anathema sets the cards down with her left hand, cutting them into three stacks. "If you'll pick them up in your non-dominant hand in whichever order you choose," she tells Aziraphale, who, not surprisingly, picks them up in the order she put them down in and hands them back to her.

Anathema begins laying out the cards; they're well-worn and feature a rather fluorescent array of unicorns, and Anathema has just a hint of a look about her like she's daring somebody to say something about it. She sets out five cards in an arc: the Four of Pentacles, reversed; the Lovers; the Five of Wands; the Chariot; and finally the Devil, reversed.

"Huh," Anathema says, which Newt knows to be a bad sign.

"What do you see?" Aziraphale asks.

"The past," she says, placing her finger on the Four of Pentacles. "The miser, reversed. Did you or Crowley drop some cash on something? Maybe a lot of it?"

"The last time we spoke, he insisted he'd been making plans for us," Aziraphale says reluctantly. "I don't know what form that took-"

"Because he forced you into a choice," she says, tapping the Lovers.

Aziraphale sighs heavily. "And I said I wasn't ready to choose. He was saying all this about leaving London and selling the shop, and I confess that I got quite overwhelmed and things got heated."

"And that leaves us here in the present," she says, touching the Five of Wands, "with conflicting ideas about what might have happened and no way forward."

"That's less than promising," Newt says.

"But," Anathema says, moving to the next card, "in the proximate future, something's going to bust us out of it, for better or worse. Whatever blockage we have now is going to be knocked through, and quickly."

"What about the last one?" Aziraphale prompts, somewhat hesitantly.

"I have no idea," Anathema says simply. "The Devil is the card for the chains that you put on yourself, and that's the outcome card. So either someone's going to have fewer chains, or someone's going to be unable to remove their own blockages, but I wouldn't call it the best card to end a reading on."

Aziraphale sits back. "I must confess that I thought that would be more satisfying."

"If you want me to do it again and lie to you, I can," Anathema says. "But that's what the cards say. It's not all bad. Our goal is to push through as much as possible and align our forces towards the same end, and that will bring about what we need to break through the blockage."

Newt feels, as he often does, the deep sense that he married well, but Anathema gets weird about it when he says that around other people. He'll tell her later.

Anathema picks up the cards, shuffling them once before tying them up and putting them back in the bag. "At the very least, we should go back to Crowley's apartment and check it out again," she says. "I think if we're going to get a clue to where he's gone, magickal or not, it's going to be there."

"Right," Aziraphale says, adjusting his coat. "Well, I'm sure you have things to gather. Rather a lot of electrical things that blink, I expect."

"Um, not really," Newt said.

_Anathema and Newt attended one meeting of the Greater Oxfordshire Paranormal Society. It was led by a very jovial, tweed-wearing man who dreamed of uniting disparate groups towards some end that Anathema was unclear on. But he was very friendly and welcoming, and he introduced the two of them around to some people who seemed lovely._

_At length, they reached the display table. People into the science of the issue had brought all manner of prototypes and expensive pieces of kit. Newt tried to maintain a careful distance, but the nice man picked up a small black apparatus that he was obviously proud of._

_"Now, this is really something," he said. "A step above the spirit box, I can promise you that." He held it out to Newt._

_"Oh, you really don't want me to do that," Newt said._

_"Nonsense. It's so easy that even a child could use it." He placed it in Newt's hands. "Just press this button to turn it on."_

_Newt looked helplessly at Anathema and pushed the button._

_Newt and Anathema are now banned from the Greater Oxfordshire Paranormal Society._

"We work high magic, low tech," Anathema says. "It's safer."

"Ah," Aziraphale says. "Then gather ye pentacles while ye may. I assume you have some sort of conveyance to get us back to London? I'm afraid I can't take anyone back the way I came."

"Dick Turpin is just back from the shop," Newt says.

"Pardon?" Aziraphale says.

"That's my car," Newt says.

"You named it after a highwayman?" Aziraphale says, and Newt beams. Anathema sighs and goes off to ready their gear.

\--

The ride to London is cramped, as is the usual state of things, but Aziraphale does obligingly sit in the back, to Anathema's relief. They look ridiculous pulling up to Crowley's chic apartment block, but Newt is used to looking ridiculous everywhere he goes.

"Good evening, Mister Fell," the guard at the front desk says, very subtly eying Newt and Anathema.

"And a good evening to you, Leo," he says, walking past the desk like he's done it a hundred times, which he probably has. They're buzzed in, and Aziraphale takes them up to a specific door.

"Do we have to break in?" Newt says, sounding excited.

"I have a key, I'm afraid," Aziraphale says, pulling a ring of keys out of nowhere and fitting one into the lock on the first try. The door pivots open, leading them into a concrete box of a place, so sharp one might cut one's self.

The whole place is very expensive and fantastically depressing. Anathema's skin crawls.

"Oh, I didn't even think of the poor plants," Aziraphale says, rushing into the atrium. He picks up the plant mister that's sitting off to one side and begins misting any plant that will have him. Newt isn't sure how he knows that the plants are sighing, but somehow he does. "There, there, my darlings. Your father will be home soon enough. I know he yells at you frightfully, but he cares for you, he truly does-"

"It feels evil in here," Anathema says, out of Aziraphale's hearing.

"Yeah, but… not evil enough?" Newt says. "Like that time in the-"

"I don't even want you to say the word 'mine' to me," Anathema says. They'd been in an odd circumstance with a former coal mine with reported activity, and if one more person explained to her what "barring down" meant, there might have been a whole new massacre there.

"But it's like that," Newt says. "Like the evil is ingrained in the space, but there's nothing fresh on top of it." He taps his chin for a moment, thinking, then pulls out what looks like a compass from a side pouch on the bag. It's gently spinning, wobbling around but finding no mark. "See?"

Seeing this, Anathema also rifles through their bag, coming up with a bottle of light brown liquid, and Newt glances at the label. "Are you sure you want to use that in here?"

"It's not like it's holy water," she says. "If he's here, it'll irritate him, maybe enough to show himself."

"Don't just drop it on his floor," he says. "What if he comes back and gets dispelled from his own house?"

"Fine," she says. She pulls a cloth out of the bag and sets it on a nearby table. "By the name of the God, I repudiate thee," she says, sprinkling the mixture on the cloth. "By the name of the Goddess, I denounce thee."

Both of them hold still for a moment, but there's no noise but Aziraphale talking to the plants.

"Yeah, that should have drawn him out," Newt says. "We could try a lure instead?"

Anathema glances over at Aziraphale. "I think we've already got his biggest lure here."

"So what now?" Newt says.

"I think we toss the place," Anathema says. "If he made big purchases, there should be receipts. Maybe if it was a trip, there would be brochures."

"And he might have decided to go with or without Aziraphale," Newt says, catching her drift. "Solid place to start, I think."

"Watch out for wards," Anathema says, kissing him on the cheek, and proceeds to rifle through the kitchen. Newt takes the desk, flipping through papers and papers, down to some old enough that he has to handle with care.

"I beg your pardon," Aziraphale says, and Newt and Anathema both look up from their searches to find he's finished with the plants. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"Looking for Crowley's papers," Anathema says.

"If he wanted to leave London, maybe he went without you," Newt says.

"That's-" Aziraphale starts, looking angry, but his shoulders slump. "That's what he would do, isn't it."

"And you have no idea where he wanted to go," Anathema says.

Aziraphale shakes his head. "We didn't get that far. We both handled it rather poorly, I'm afraid." He perks up a bit. "Oh, but I do know where his safe is. Well. The safe I know about, where he keeps his papers. If he hasn't got more, I'm frankly quite surprised."

"That would have been good information to have," Newt says patiently.

Aziraphale leads the way through the atrium, to a pedestal topped with a statue of- Anathema and Newt both cock their heads to the side, studying it, and they look back at each other- what is definitely two winged creatures. Aziraphale slots his finger into a depression that is practically invisible, and a panel pops open, revealing a door with a keypad.

"Do you know-" Newt starts, but Aziraphale is already typing in a code.

"He sets all his pin numbers to the same thing," Aziraphale says, as the door pops open. "It's really a terrible habit."

There is a stack of folders in the safe, and Aziraphale carries them to Crowley's desk, spreading them out. "It's not here," Aziraphale says instantly, picking up one particular folder that seems lighter than the rest.

Anathema peers at the folders. "How do you know?"

"Oh, he knows I sneak in and look at his papers," Aziraphale says. "I get dreadfully bored sometimes while he's asleep." He flips the folder open. "Nothing in here is new, except-"

He drops the folder.

Newt and Anathema both take a look at the folder, now laying open on the desk. The label on the folder says "New place", scribbled in heavy black ink. There is just one sheet of pale pink typing paper in it, and it reads:

It's a surprise, angel.

"I don't even know what to say to that," Anathema says.

"Oh, he definitely went wherever this new place is," Aziraphale says, still looking dazed. "That is just typical of him, to not even consider that I might-" With difficulty he stops himself, but for a moment, something in the back of Anathema's mind feels the brush of holy fire. "Well, we've just got to find out what this surprise is."

Aziraphale storms out, and Anathema and Newt watch him go.

"We bit off more than we could chew," Newt says.

"_Crowley_ bit off more than he could chew," Anathema says. "He'll be lucky if he doesn't get smote by the time this is all over."

"Well, I guess the search for the wayward demon continues," Newt says, and he follows after Aziraphale.

Anathema sighs. The Chariot can't come soon enough.


	3. The Five of Wands

They do go back to Aziraphale's shop, and they do run out of ideas.

That's not exactly representative of the situation. There are a lot of things they can do. There are items at the Vatican and other repositories that might be used for demon finding, if Aziraphale can get in. Newt can collect mountains of newspapers and pore through them looking for ambient events that might suggest demonic intervention. Anathema can do any number of rituals or perform any number of divinations.

It's just that none of these ideas are particularly _good_. They're all either slow, scattershot, or unwieldy, and the clock is ticking. The clock until what, nobody knows; maybe it's a clock until nothing, or just until Aziraphale completely loses his shit and does something drastic.

This carries on for over two weeks, which is entirely too much time, especially considering the time before that that Aziraphale spent looking on his own. Newt and Anathema basically live at the bookshop now, in the room upstairs that Aziraphale graciously gave up to them; that isn't nearly the weirdest part of all of this. Aziraphale stays up, reading books on demonology, but Anathema suspects he's only doing it for comfort, not because he doesn't know what's in them.

"What happens if we can't do this?" Newt asks, as he and Anathema lie in Aziraphale's bed. "What happens if he never comes back, or if he's stuck in Hell, or if he's just in Australia?"

"He's not in Hell, I'm pretty sure of that much," Anathema says. "Not that I'm some expert on Hell now or anything."

Newt pushes her hair back behind her ear. "You avoided my question."

"I hoped you wouldn't notice," she says. "It used to work."

"What happens if it ends like this?" he asks again.

"I think it ends badly for Aziraphale," she says. "I don't think they have other friends. I think it's always been the two of them. If anyone else who's like them is willing to help, Aziraphale certainly hasn't called them in." She puts her hand in his. "We're good at what we do. We're not immortal beings of immense power."

"Speak for yourself," he says, just to see her smile.

"At some point we're going to have to call it," she says. "We have a life to get back to. But I'm not inclined to hurry that up."

"We'll stay until Aziraphale wants us to go," he says. "I just don't like to think about him being all alone. If I lost you like this-"

"Shh," she says, curling herself around him, because they are mortal, and one of them will one day lose the other. "We stay."

So the three of them settle into a routine, one that is neither successful nor fulfilling, but things break one morning, in a completely unexpected way.

Anathema and Aziraphale are having breakfast, each of them with tea in one hand and a book in the other, as they often take their breakfasts. The door bursts open, and they both look up in surprise.

"I found something important," Newt says. Anathema can be forgiven for the once-over she gives him. He's panting and sweating, clothing sticking to his skin; she can't help it if it looks good on him.

"What is it?" Aziraphale asks, marking his page.

"I think I have a lead on where Crowley is," Newt says. He holds up his phone. "You need to hear this."

"You can use a cell phone?" Aziraphale says.

"As long as I don't try to use wireless headphones, I'm usually fine," Newt says. "But I was listening to a podcast on my jog, and I found something very important."

"What is a podcast?" Aziraphale asks.

"Like a radio show that you can listen to on the internet, but you can control it like a recording," Newt says.

"How marvelous," Aziraphale says, delighted. "What are they about?"

"Oh, anything you like, really," Newt says. "There are loads about books, good or bad."

"I must ask Crowley to-" Aziraphale stops, crumpling. He clears his throat. "And what is this one about?"

"Some American ghost hunters," Newt says. "I like to keep up on the zeitghost." He waits for a laugh; Anathema rubs her forehead, and after a pause Aziraphale titters politely. "Er, right. I listen to it to keep an eye on them, because they drive expectations for our clients. Mostly into the toilet. They've been on a European tour the last few months, and it's only made things worse."

"Are these those terrible people who yell obscenities at spirits?" Anathema asks.

"Yeah," Newt says, unplugging his earbuds from his phone and setting it on the table between Aziraphale and Anathema.

"That seems unsporting," Aziraphale says. "What did these suspected ghosts ever do to them?"

"Made them famous to twelve people on the internet," Anathema says.

Newt pulls it up, and some generic butt rock starts playing, not that any of them know that term. "They do introductions and banter for five minutes, it's never interesting," he says, advancing the recording. "The one with the higher voice is Jake, the deeper one is Max. The female voice is Cecily. And, um, there is a lot of profanity, if that sort of thing bothers you."

He lets his finger off the screen, and the podcast resumes.

_"-out of London,"_ a very American masculine voice says, _"to an area not far from the southern coast of England. The area looks idyllic, rolling pastures, white chalk cliffs, and beautiful vistas. But this area has its share of ghost stories, including one of the newest and most active hot spots in the British Isles."_

"Oh no," Anathema says.

"The next ten minutes is a not particularly good history of the area, where they managed not to say 'South Downs' once," Newt says. "I'll skip forward to the investigation."

"That really is awfully convenient," Aziraphale says, studying Newt's podcatcher.

Newt starts the recording again. _"Are we rolling, Ces?"_ probably-Max says. _"Okay, we're approaching the house now."_

_"Nice little cottage, dude,"_ Jake says.

"Oh my god," Anathema says.

"I didn't say I listened to it for fun," Newt says defensively. 

_"Let's just get into this back door,"_ Max says, and there are faint sounds that are definitely someone illegally forcing a door open.

_"It's cold as fuck in here, bro,"_ Jake says. _"What's our temp, Ces?"_

_"I'm reading 75 where I am, but 56 where you are,"_ Cecily says.

"Do demons even cause cold spots?" Anathema asks.

"Not in the slightest," Aziraphale says.

"There's a reason this is a podcast, and it's not just because they can't get a TV show," Newt says. "It's good for jogging, because how much I hate it fuels me."

The ghost hunters are setting up equipment and saying a lot of jargon; Anathema's eyes glaze over, but it's to be expected. Newt is definitely more current on it than she is, because he's the one with the questionable podcasts and the trade newsletters. 

_"Turning the spirit box on, guys,"_ Cecily says.

_"Yo, if anything wants to make contact, we're listening,"_ Max says. _"If you can hear my voice, just do your stuff."_

There is dead air for a few moments. 

_"We're not here to make trouble,"_ Max says.

_"Unless you want trouble,"_ Jake says. _"Cause we can go right now, bro."_

_**Fuck off,**_ a familiar voice says, though it sounds distorted, like it's been laid over radio static. _**Can't somebody mope in peace?**_

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighs, with such relief in his voice that Anathema can feel it in her chest.

_"Who said that?"_ Jake says. _"Show yourself."_

_**You're not my type,**_ Crowley says.

_"What did you come here for, spirit?"_ Cecily asks. _"How can we help you?"_

_**As I've already stated, you can politely fuck off,**_ Crowley says. _**I happen to own this cottage, and you're all on my property. You lot love castle doctrine until you're the ones breaking and entering.**_

_"Are you trying to step to me?"_ Jake challenges.

"Oh, he really shouldn't have done that," Aziraphale says, smiling sneakily.

There is a shout on the recording. _"Ooh, look at me, I'm an American,"_ Crowley says, stronger this time, like he's embodied again. _"I talk too loud in restaurants and wank to pictures of bald eagles."_ Jake gasps loudly. _**Get fucked, all of you,**_ Crowley says through the spirit box.

_"Dude, it's not worth it,"_ Max says urgently. _"We gotta go, buddy."_

_"This isn't over, bro,"_ Jake says ominously.

The investigation section fades into more generic rock music, and Newt pauses the recording.

Aziraphale huffs in annoyance. "AJC Holdings," he says. "I'm quite annoyed with myself for not thinking of it sooner."

"What?" Anathema says, frowning.

"Crowley has a shell company that he uses for things like buying property," Aziraphale says. "I usually just make anyone who asks about my affairs forget what they were doing, but Crowley had the legalities sorted years ago. He invented shell companies, you know," he adds, sounding just a little proud.

"Where does that get us?" Newt asks.

Aziraphale picks up the address book next to his phone and flips through it. "It gets AZ Fell, Chief Financial Officer, the address of this house," he says, laboriously dialing the right number. "Hello, would you please put me through to Miss Bernina? This is Mister Fell, calling in regards to AJC Holdings. Yes, of course I'll hold."

"I figured we were going to break in," Newt says, slightly disappointed. 

"We are," Aziraphale says. "No telling what happened to the keys. I just want to break into the right house." There is a brief pause, then Aziraphale holds up a finger. "Miss Bernina, it is always a joy to hear your voice. I just have a minor matter to settle for Anthony." A pause. "Well, I have a new assistant, and the boy has gone and mislaid the deed for the newest acquisition. Oh, would you? That would be lovely. While I'm waiting for it to arrive, would you mind terribly reminding me of the address? I can go on and get some things started once I have it." Aziraphale scribbles it down. "Splendid. I just know I can rely on you for anything. Give my best to Yusuf. Goodbye."

"Um, there's another thing you need to hear," Newt says. "It's not quite done, and it's why I ran back here."

He starts the recording again. _"Hey, fam, don't forget to check back next week for our new episode,"_ Max says. _"When you're hearing this, we'll be getting ready to go down with everybody's favorite exorcist, Papa Milo."_

"Exorcisms mean holy water," Aziraphale says over the recording, looking stricken. "When was this published?"

"Yesterday," Newt says, cringing. He stops the playback, the damage being done. "They posted pictures to their twitter at the cottage earlier today."

"So we need to be there an hour ago," Anathema says.

"Our supplies are packed, so we can be out of here immediately," Newt says.

"Then let's not dawdle," Aziraphale says. He waves his hand, and Newt and Anathema's gear lands softly on the floor by the front entrance, along with a very old valise of unsure contents.

They're geared up and standing on the street before they realize the problem.

"So it's down to Dick Turpin, is it?" Aziraphale says.

"He'll get us there," Newt says. He shrugs uneasily. "Eventually."

"I've done more with less," Aziraphale says. "But…"

The three of them turn their heads to where Crowley's Bentley is parked, at the spot on the curb where it never seems to get towed.

"I can't drive stick," Anathema says. 

"I can't drive at all," Aziraphale says. 

"Will it let me?" Newt asks hesitantly. 

Aziraphale walks over, putting his hands on the Bentley, stroking it like one might a nervous horse. "It's Aziraphale, dear," he says softly. "Crowley is in a very bad way, and we're left with no suitable conveyance to get to him. Would you consider doing your bit?" He swallows hard. "It's just that I love him so much, and I can't bear to be parted from him for another instant. If you can't help, I'm afraid he might never drive you again. You might sit on this curb forever, just me and you, alone, without Crowley."

The doors to the Bentley pop open as the engine roars to life.

"Your chariot awaits," Aziraphale says, and they pile in before the Bentley can change its mind.


	4. The Chariot

Newt, thankfully, stops shrieking after the first five minutes. It is clear quite quickly that the brakes either don't work or don't want to work; whenever Newt makes an attempt to slow down, not being in favor of going a hundred miles per hour, the car refuses to let him do it. It bobs and weaves like a living thing, and it's obvious that Newt's job is to work the clutch and hang on.

Newt's next course of action is to begin chanting under his breath. Anathema can only kind of hear it, but it sounds like protection magic, which is a very good idea. Anathema finds a bottle of a similarly protection-based anointing oil in their gear and liberally applies it; her clothes don't leave much exposed, but she does her best. She reaches over and rubs it on Newt's tensed arm, not wanting to startle him too badly.

"Thank you, dear," Newt says, then goes back to chanting.

She holds out the bottle to Aziraphale, but he waves her off. "None for me, thank you," he says politely. It does not escape her notice that he is also terrified, but she doesn't mention it. He has plenty to be terrified about. 

The scenery whips by them as they leave London, headed south. Newt keeps saying something about fear being the mind killer, but Anathema and Aziraphale both leave him be. So far this is working, even though they're tearing through the landscape like, well, a bat out of hell.

It's possible Aziraphale has to use a miracle or two to keep them from hitting someone or something, but it is not the first time by far.

When they get closer, Anathema reads the directions to Newt, though she definitely thinks the Bentley is the one listening; this confirmed when Newt almost makes a wrong turn and the Bentley wrenches itself back in the right direction. It's all happening too fast for Anathema to really see where they're going, just that they pass through a small village and start making a lot of turns.

"There," she says finally, pointing; there's only one house the way they're going, and it jibes with the map. The Bentley rushes towards it, cornering hard and sending up a spray of gravel as it comes to a stop in front of the house.

Newt opens the door and falls out of the car.

Anathema hurriedly gets out and goes to help him up, while Aziraphale takes his time, adjusting his bowtie before exiting the car.

They're parked next to a beat-up panel van, and the four people gathered around it are staring at the Bentley and its occupants in shock. A case full of equipment sits open next to them, and they look to be in the middle of recording something. Three of them- two men and a woman- are in street clothes, while the third- doubtlessly Papa Milo- is dressed more like a street preacher, wearing a rosary and a flask of holy water at his waist.

Aziraphale knows this because it says "Holy Water" on it.

"Oh, hello," Aziraphale says, in his best avuncular tone. "I'm glad I caught you before sundown. I know that's when you types like to do your investigations."

All of the ghost hunters are looking at each other, not noticing that Newt and Anathema have edged around towards their gear.

"I am Mister Fell of AJC Holdings, the owner of this cottage," Aziraphale says, liberally passing out business cards to the startled ghost hunters. "I regret to inform you that you are all trespassing and that I will call the authorities if you don't leave immediately." He smiles kindly. "If you leave now, I might not even point out that I have evidence that you broke into our property. On foreign soil. From which you can be barred."

"I'll take care of this, guys," Max says, walking over to Aziraphale; he's still holding a microphone. He puts his hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, and Aziraphale just looks at it for a moment before moving on. "Look, man, we're here to help you," he says cajolingly. "We know this place has some activity associated with it, and we want to help you cleanse it."

"This is a laser infrared thermometer," Newt says quietly to Anathema, having used the distraction to sneak up to the team's gear and reach in. "Want to see how it works?"

"I'd love to," Anathema says.

"Am I on your podcast?" Aziraphale says, leaning closer to the microphone. "How lovely. I think podcasts are quite interesting, you know. I look forward to listening to them." He turns away from Max, looking at the rest of them. "However, I have had a _very_ bad time of it lately, and I would like to invite all of you not to test me."

Papa Milo screeches when the flask of holy water on his belt suddenly detonates. At the same time, Newt turns on the thermometer, the laser on which is suddenly and inexplicably so strong that it blasts a line of destruction through the box of equipment, melting some very pricey-looking items.

Angels have a certain control over sanctified materials. Witches are notoriously disposed to making technology malfunction. One must play to one's strengths. 

"The fuck did you just do?!" Jake says, and Cecily catches him before he can lunge at Aziraphale.

"We are out of our fucking league," she says, which is the wisest thing any of them have said. "Get in the van. Everybody, please, just get in the van."

Max grabs the box of ruined equipment and tosses it into the van before climbing in and dragging Jake in with him. Papa Milo follows suit, and Cecily hops in the driver's seat, not even stopping to buckle in before starting the van and getting gone.

"That could have gone better," Anathema says, and both Aziraphale and Newt look at her. "It was very entertaining, don't get me wrong. But we could have just paid them off."

"Sometimes you just have to let off some steam," Aziraphale says. Now that the danger has passed, at least for the moment, they get a look at the cottage for the first time. "What a charming little place. It looks quite idyllic, doesn't it?"

Aziraphale continues to comment on the surroundings in what strikes Newt as a nervous way; Newt knows that it is a nervous way, because he's done the same thing. They reach the door, and Aziraphale just turns the handle and walks in, a thing that definitely would not have happened for anyone else.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale calls. "I know you're in here. I sent those bloody Americans away, so it's just us. Well, and Anathema and Newt."

Anathema sees Crowley peer around a wall and look out at the three of them. Newt doesn't see him, looking in entirely the wrong direction. Newt doesn't have the knack for seeing the unseen in the same way that Anathema does; she's never been able to teach him to see auras, and that's what it looks like, an aura with a faint image of a person wavering in it.

"Crowley, my darling," Aziraphale says, sighing. "You don't know what we had to do to find you."

_Er, hi, angel,_ Crowley says. He nods to Anathema. _Book girl._ He looks at Newt. _Why is the other one looking at the kitchen?_

"He can't see you, dear," Aziraphale says. "We need to talk, badly it seems."

_I'd really rather have this conversation corporeally,_ Crowley says.

Anathema and Aziraphale look at Newt. "What?" he says, confused.

_Do us a favor,_ Crowley says, drifting over, even though Newt can't hear him.

"Crowley wants to be in you," Aziraphale says.

Newt blinks. "I really must check with Anathema," he says.

"It doesn't hurt," Aziraphale assures him. "It feels sort of pleasant, actually. Gives you a little frisson."

"Goddess help me," Anathema says under her breath.

"I'll give you a three-count, and just try to open yourself to it," Aziraphale says. "One-"

And Crowley phases into Newt's body. His form convulses for a moment, face contorting into weird shapes before settling.

"That's a bit more like it," Crowley says, rolling Newt's shoulders. "Not having a body is a drag. I couldn't even drown my sorrows." Anathema is studying him closely, not sure how to articulate how she feels about Newt looking all loose-limbed and insouciant. "It's nice," Crowley says, when he sees her looking, holding up Newt's arms.

"Thank you," Newt says, sounding deeply lost.

The whole thing is cut off by the way Aziraphale puts his arms around Crowley and hugs him tightly, his fingers clenched in Newt's jacket. "Please don't ever leave me like that again," Aziraphale says, voice thick. "Everything was my fault, and I can't bear knowing I cost you your body, perhaps forever."

"Hey, hey, hey," Crowley says, holding Aziraphale to him. "You didn't make me walk in front of a bus. That was my own stupid fault, and you couldn't have prevented it. We never would have fought in the first place if I hadn't gone off half-cocked and jumped three steps ahead."

"I was just concerned," Aziraphale says. "You were talking so seriously, and I am surpassingly serious about the two of us, but I'm also serious about my shop. I'm afraid you didn't even get a real chance to explain before I reacted."

"I just wanted to make a grand romantic gesture," Crowley says, looking at the toe of Newt's shoe instead of Aziraphale's face. "I should probably leave that kind of thing to the professionals."

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale asks. "Is this about the surprise? I found your note."

Crowley holds out Newt's arms, indicating the cottage. "This was the surprise, which I fucked up on every level." He puts them down again. "Surprise."

"You bought us a home?" Aziraphale says softly.

"If I'd had my head on straight, we could have worked something out," Crowley says. "You could keep the shop, and you could pop over there when you needed to, though between you and me my flat is five years out of date and I don't want to redo it if I'm going to sell-"

Aziraphale silences him with a kiss. There's such longing poured into it, on both sides, that Anathema feels like she should look away, like she's seeing too much.

"Oh my," Newt says, when they part, but no one pays attention to him.

"It's beautiful, my dearest," Aziraphale says. "You did all this just for us. If I'd have known this is what you meant, my reaction would have been very different."

"I probably could have presented it better," Crowley says. "I hope you don't think I stepped into traffic to manipulate you, even though that is something I'd do."

"Things changed when you were discorporated," Aziraphale says. "Before, I thought I could live without you. I'd done it for decades before. But when it seemed you were really lost, I knew that if I could only get you back, I would never be able to part from you again."

"Angel," Crowley says, wiping the tears from Aziraphale's cheeks.

"Let's live together here, my love," Aziraphale says. "Everything else will sort itself out."

They embrace for a long time, just standing there, reunited, but eventually Newt delicately clears his throat.

"Yes?" Aziraphale says.

"Um, well, not to be too direct or anything," Newt says, "but this is my body, and I would very much like to go back to Tadfield with my wife at the conclusion of this issue."

"Right," Aziraphale says. "There is the missing body problem, and neither Hell nor Heaven would reissue one for either of us."

"The Chariot is outside," Anathema says. "That only leaves us the outcome."

Crowley looks suspicious. "Is this a tarot thing?"

"Oh yes," Aziraphale says. "Anathema did quite a helpful reading. The Four of Pentacles, reversed, that was you buying this, the Lovers, that was us falling out, the Five of Wands, that was us getting stuck on the problem, and the Bentley is the Chariot, in quite a literal sense. That leaves us with the outcome, which we can't suss out."

"What's the outcome card, then?" Crowley asks.

"The Devil, reversed," Anathema says.

Crowley's eye-roll looks bizarre on Newt's face. "You really drew the Devil and you're sitting here wondering what it means?"

"We can't very well go to Hell," Aziraphale says.

"Rank amateurs," Crowley mutters, walking out of the cottage. "Come on, then, I know where we're going."

Anathema leans over to Aziraphale. "If you do need to kiss my husband again, please use less tongue."

"Dreadfully sorry," Aziraphale says, though he doesn't sound sorry at all, and they both follow Crowley.

Crowley is only a few steps away from the front door when he stops dead. "How did the Bentley get here?" he demands. "_My_ Bentley?"

"It was ever so helpful, dear," Aziraphale says, taking his arm. "It cares for you so much."

Crowley points Newt's finger at Newt's face. "If you put so much as one scratch on it, you'll never sit in a comfortable chair again as long as you live."

"I didn't even want to do it," Newt protests, as Crowley stalks towards the Bentley.

"Where are we going, anyway?" Anathema asks.

"You never did figure it out?" Crowley says. "_How?_"

"It has several meanings," Anathema says defensively. "Tarot is inexact."

"Get in the car," Crowley says. "We're going to see the Devil." He slides in and starts the engine. "Reversed."


	5. The Devil, Reversed

By the time they get to Hogsback Lane, Crowley has already opined at length as to why they all should have seen this coming. Aziraphale has been reduced to saying, "yes, dear," a lot, while Anathema has found Newt's headphones and turned on an audiobook. Newt can't get a word in edgewise, but that isn't surprising. He often can't even when he has a body.

When they pull up to Number 4, the sun is thinking about setting. Crowley cuts the engine, and all of them sit looking at the house.

"How do we approach this?" Aziraphale asks.

"Well, uh," Crowley says. "Didn't get that far, really."

"You didn't?" Newt says, finally cutting in and sounding indignant.

"Look, all I said is I knew who it meant," Crowley says defensively. "Did I say I knew what to do? No. I just said I knew more than the rest of you."

"You're usually wrong when you think that," Aziraphale says, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Is this about that time in Ibiza?" Crowley fires back. "Because you know very well that-"

"Back here," a voice calls, and they turn to see Adam waving from the gate to the back garden.

"So that's how we do it, apparently," Anathema says, and Crowley and Aziraphale open the doors.

Adam opens the gate to let them in. "Did you know we were coming?" Anathema asks.

"No," Adam says. "Not until I saw your car on the ridge."

"I'm afraid we've come for something frightfully important," Aziraphale says. 

"Could really use a favor," Crowley says.

"Now he's two people," Adam says, cocking his head at Newt. "Does this happen a lot?"

"If you can believe it, this is only the second time," Crowley says. 

"It's very disorienting," Newt says.

"You're fine," Crowley says dismissively. "But if you could do us a favor and give me my body back."

"Yeah, about that," Adam says. "You'll have to find another way."

"What?" Newt and Crowley say at the same time, though Crowley's voice continues into "the fuck?".

"Have you lost your powers?" Anathema asks. "I'm sure I can figure out a working to help, let me just go back and consult my books-"

"It's not that," Adam says. "It's just, you know."

"I really don't," Newt says.

"I got my powers from being a big evil thing, yeah?" Adam says. "So if I use my powers, that makes me evil. So the best solution for everyone is for me not to use them."

"Doesn't work like that," Crowley says. "I would know. If what you did with your powers made you good or bad, the angel and I would be morally neutral by now."

"Aren't you?" Adam asks, and Crowley finds an interesting tree to look at.

"It's your choice," Anathema says reluctantly, looking frustrated, "but- but, it's just very important-"

Aziraphale puts a hand on her shoulder. "Let me make my case," he says. "Would you give me a chance, Adam?"

Adam looks ambivalent, but he nods. "Yeah, I guess."

Aziraphale sits down on the garden bench, patting the space next to him, and Adam sits down with him. "We are all of us relics," Aziraphale says. "At the level of Heaven and Hell's politics, we are no longer needed. Armageddon has passed, and when war comes again, the shape of it will be something new and unknown. It behooves us now to carve out Earthly lives for ourselves." 

"What does that mean for me?" Adam asks.

Aziraphale presses a finger gently to Adam's chest. "You will forge your own path, human and new. But none of us will lose what got us here. Anathema has her magic. Newt's power is, shall we say, situational, but it is his. Crowley and I have our miracles. You have the power to shape reality. It will never go away, but it will never lessen who you are at heart."

"Why do you need this so much?" Adam asks.

"Because the life I have carved out is with Crowley," Aziraphale says simply. "I am asking you for a selfish thing. If it wasn't desperately important to me, I wouldn't ask. But I am not asking you for something that will make you evil. It won't save you, either. It will simply be a thing you have done."

Crowley leans over into the conversation. "I sometimes do four and five miracles a day and I can't even hear Hell anymore," he tells Adam. "They've really given up on us. We're inconvenient, and both Hell and Heaven know that the easiest thing to do is disavow all knowledge."

"It's really okay?" Adam says.

"It really is," Aziraphale says.

"Alright then," Adam says, seeming resolved. He looks at Newt-Crowley. "You can be two people again."

The effect is instantaneous; Newt and Crowley pull away from each other, standing side by side. Crowley looks the same as he ever did, yellow eyes and all, and Newt lets out a long exhale, looking immensely relieved. Crowley reaches into Newt's jacket and retrieves a pair of sunglasses, putting them on. This is the last thing he is able to do before Aziraphale all but tackles him.

"Oh, my love," Aziraphale says, kissing him all over his face.

"Jesus Christ, angel," Crowley says, his glasses knocked askew. "There are children present."

Anathema walks over, slipping her hand into Newt's and bumping him with her shoulder.

"You liked it a little bit," Newt says.

Anathema leans up and kisses his cheek. "It only made me think I could be doing more to your body."

Newt goes bright red.

"Sorry," Aziraphale says, letting Crowley go, brushing nonexistent dust off himself and then off of Crowley, who bats his hands away. "I got a little excited."

"Next time I help, I expect a reward," Adam says.

"How'd you like a ride in the Bentley?" Crowley says. "Fair's fair."

"Really?" Adam says, with an enthusiasm that makes it clear that he's not even fourteen years old.

"Really?" Aziraphale says skeptically. 

"Yeah," Crowley says. "The human must have rubbed on me, made me a little magnanimous. Besides, we have to get these two home," he adds, hooking a thumb at Newt and Anathema. 

"Actually, we live two streets over," Newt says, pointing. "Even walking it's less than five minutes."

Crowley grins widely. "Then we'll just have to be creative with our route."

\--

It started with a cleansing.

It ends with a blessing. 

Aziraphale cannot bless the cottage; the holiness of it would damage Crowley. Crowley cannot bless the cottage; he's a demon, and that's called a curse. Anathema and Newt, however, deal with a completely different kind of blessing, a very human kind. Their magic is neither good nor evil; it only is.

"Now, the house is rather bigger than it looks," Aziraphale warns them. "You can leave the library alone. I don't even know what kind of reactions would result from the various occult tomes."

"Got it," Anathema says. "Give us an hour or so, and we'll be ready for you to enter."

"Splendid," Aziraphale says, and Newt and Anathema set to work.

"I hope we have enough," Newt says, as they cross the threshold, looking at the sack of pulverised herbs and salt he's carrying.

Anathema sets down their other supplies by the front door, strapping on the bag of just-in-case supplies. "We'll be fine, I think. It's the intent, not the amount."

"Oh, right, I almost forgot," Newt says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a vial of oil. "May I?"

She lets him rub a few drops of the oil on her forehead before doing the same to him. "Let's get to work."

They work deosil around the house, Newt sprinkling the herb mixture all along the walls, making sure to get it in the corners, the closets, everywhere things might collect. Anathema pours a tincture onto a soft cloth, wiping down the sill of every window they pass. They talk as they work, all good things, things to make the space feel ready, lived in.

"I will give you five pounds to put rose petals all over the bed," Newt says, when they enter the bedroom.

Anathema grins. "The only flowers I have in the bag are lavender, but now we have to."

They move on after making a big heart out of lavender, working through the rest of the house. Anathema pokes her head into the library just to see.

"That can't exist in the same dimension as us," Newt says, as the two of them stare.

"Nope," Anathema says, and she shuts the door.

The house really is bigger than it looks, but they finally reach the front door again. Newt weighs the sack of herbs, now much lighter. "Looks like we just made it," he says, setting it down.

Anathema hands him the besom. "Why is it always me?" Newt asks.

"You knew what you were getting into when you married me," Anathema says.

They begin progressing through the house again. While Anathema chants, Newt sweeps up the protection herbs; they've done their magical duty inside, though there's still a use for them. Anathema's not chanting in English, so he can't pick it up, but he tries to think happy thoughts. In the pantheon of magic, happy thoughts are underrated.

They end up with a pile of herbs with a little bit of dust mixed in, but that's fine. Anathema sweeps it all up into a dustpan, setting it aside. Both of them tie a ribbon to the besom, and Anathema opens the front door. They both step out of it and lay the besom over the threshold.

"One sec," Anathema says to Aziraphale and Crowley, who are sitting in some lawn chairs that were not there before, drinking a bottle of wine.

"Take your time," Crowley says.

Newt sprinkles the herbs around the front door, on either side of the path and out as far as they'll reach. They'll be blown away or sink into the earth, but they're there, and that's what matters.

"I think we're ready," Anathema says, wiping her hands on her skirt.

"Lovely," Aziraphale says, setting the wine bottle down. "Shall we, my dear?"

"I think so," Crowley says.

They walk towards the front door, and they step over the besom as easily as anything. Anathema feels a shift, a flaring to life of something magical, neither holy nor unholy, just _connected_.

Newt kisses her on the forehead. "You did well."

"Yeah, we did," she says, smiling. They go to the front door; Aziraphale and Crowley left the besom in place, and Newt and Anathema lift it together, setting it on a pair of hooks above the door. The lights in the house are coming on one by one as the new residents pass through the rooms, and Newt and Anathema wait for them to take it in.

"What's all this on the bed?" Aziraphale says, over the sound of Crowley's laughter.

"Couldn't imagine," Newt says.

"Magic is mysterious in its means," Anathema intones, but they're both grinning.


End file.
